UC-NRLF 


Hi  I s 


E73    137 


GIFT  OF 
Class  of  1887 


^      X 


AT  TWILIGHT 


EDWARD  MASLIN    HULME 


...LIBRARY  OF... 

ARCHER  W.  HENDRICK 


AT   TWILIGHT 


AT  TWILIGHT 
A  BOOK  OF  LYRICS 


BY 

EDWARD  MASLIN  HULME 


H.  S.  CROCKER  Co 

SAN  FRANCISCO 
1897 


c\ 


n 


T 


PREFATORY   NOTE. 

HIS  book  of  verse  is  scarcely  more  than  a  second 
edition  of  my  previous  pamphlet,  "An  Evening 
Thought."  It  has  all  been  written  during  my  un 
dergraduate  course  at  Stanford  University;  and, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  was  printed  in  "The  Sequoia," 
the  University  literary  magazine.  For  the  most 
part  it  is  reminiscent  of  my  life  in  England,  and 
aims  only  to  express  different  phases  of  a  cer 
tain  mood.  The  title  was  chosen  for  its  suggestion 

of  the  similarity  of  tone. 

E.  M.  H. 

Stanford  University,  California,  May,  1897. 


876981 


T 


TO   MY   MOTHER, 
ANNIE  LOUISE  HULME. 

HERE  is  much  that  Time's  lordship  shall  alter, 

Life's  glory  may  dim  with  its  rust, 
Old  loves  and  old  memories  shall  falter, 

Old  dreams  shall  be  fallen  to  dust. 
For  the  doom  of  all  things  earth-begotten 

Is  to  change  as  the  flowers  or  the  foam, 
To  fade  as  the  grass,  and,  forgotten, 

In  dust  make  their  home. 

The  bright  sword  of  Fame  may  be  broken, 

The  tower  of  Faith  be  thrown  down, 
Time's  footsteps  may  leave  their  dim  token 

Of  dust  on  the  sheen  of  Hope's  crown. 
Yet  amid  all  the  things  that  avail  not, 

But  pass  as  the  foam  of  the  sea, 
Is  thy  love  for  me  that  shall  fail  not, 

And  my  love  for  thee, 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

At  Twilight 13 

At  Sunset 14 

Ephemera 15 

A  Twilight  Song 16 

Questioning 17 

The  House  of  Dreams 18 

Remembrance 19 

An  Evening  Thought .  20 

The  Vesper  Chime 21 

When  Love  Shall  Come 22 

Love's  Guerdon 23 

A  Lyric 24 

Memories 25 

Autumn 26 

Fantasy 27 

In  the  Convent  Garden 28 

The  End  of  Day 29 

My  Sea 30 

A  Memory 31 

Lilacs 32 

Nocturne 33 

In  the  Quadrangle — 

Morning  in  Autumn 34 

Evening  in  Summer 35 

At  Lenten  Vespers 36 

The  Passing  of  Love 37 

Supplication 38 

Love's  Advent 39 

A  Gentian • 40 

A  Linnet  Rhapsody 41 

To  Death 42 

Ballade  of  the  Waters  of  Acheron 43 

At  the  Ball 44 

A  Heart-Song 45 

A  Relic  of  the  Missions ,    , 46 


N 


AT  TWILIGHT. 

EVER  in  the  night  or  noon 
Come  to  me  such  thoughts  of  you 
As  now,  when  in  the  deepening  blue 

Grows  the  glamour  of  the  moon. 

They  are  not  born  of  vain  regrets; 

Call  it  fancy  or  what  you  will, 

It  is  your  eyes  that  I  see  still, 
And  not  the  purple  violets. 

Call  it  fancy  or  what  you  will, 

In  the  dreamy  spell  the  twilight  weaves 
I  know  I  hear  in  the  falling  leaves 

The  sound  of  your  footsteps,  long  since  still. 


AT  SUNSET. 

N  the  dim  red  glow  of  the  sunset 

The  tide  is  drifting  home, 
And  the  wide  and  desolate  reaches 

Once  more  are  a  field  of  foam. 

Upon  the  vanishing  headland 
The  red  sun's  last  ray  gleams, 

While  the  deepening  shadows  are  dancing 
The  long  day  into  dreams. 

I  hear  a  voice  in  the  twilight 

That  is  calling  low  to  me. 
Is  it  one  that  comes  from  the  windward, 

Out  on  the  lonely  sea? 

Full  of  regret  and  desire, 
As  your  own  heart  used  to  be, 

Do  I  hear  your  voice  as  I  listen, 
Or  the  voice  of  my  heart  in  me? 

The  wraith  of  the  rain,  in  the  shadows, 
Is  haunting  the  shore  we  have'  known, 

But,  O,  that  it  found  me  wandering 
With  the  twilight  all  my  own. 


N 


EPHEMERA. 

o  month  of  summer  with  its  poppied  spell, 
Though  it  be  filled  with  sweetness  as  a  shell 
Is  filled  with  sound  of  the  star-paven  sea, 
May  be  as  fair  as  that  dear  month  to  me, 
When  April's  moon  was  our  love's  sentinel. 

The  orchard  bloom  against  the  silver  shield 
Of  the  clear  sky  was  fair,  and  in  the  field 

Was  heard  the  droning  of  the  golden  bee, 

The  chamberer  of  each  anemone 
That  was  not  fain  its  nectarous  cup  to  yield. 

That  month  of  love  hath  fallen  to  dust  and  dreams; 
The  flower  of  all  the  years  to  me  it  seems; 

And  yet  it  was  of  Time  the  ephemeron; 

Of  Time  who  that  dear  month  of  love  now  done 
No  more  than  any  withered  flower  esteems. 

That  silver  note  struck  from  Time's  golden  lute 
Through  all  the  lonely  ages  shall  be  mute, 
The  string  shall  be  unfingered;  and  to  me 
The  wandering  wind  shall  be  a  threnody 
Of  that  dear  month  at  once  both  flower  and  fruit. 

Time  stayed  not  for  thee  then,  nor  for  me  now 
He  waits,  this  lord  before  whom  Love  must  bow; 
He  gathers  every  flower  within  his  sheaves, 
And  binds  up  all  of  them  with  poppy  leaves, 
And  we  are  his  ephemera,  I  and  thou. 


W 


A  TWILIGHT  SONG. 

HEN  swallows  fly 

On  wistful  wings, 
And  the  rose-flushed  sky 

The  darkness  brings, — 
Sing,  shadowy  pines, 

Of  the  sail-winged  sea, 
And  sing,  O  day, 

Thy  memory. 

When  the  salt  sea  tide 

Returns  again, 
O'er  reaches  wide, 

With  its  sad  refrain,— 
Sing  wailing  tern, 

The  day  forget, 
To  dreams  return, 

Leave  old  regret. 

When  ways  to  wander 

Allure  no  more, 
Stay  wind  to  ponder 

Beside  my  door, — 
As  some  sea-shell 

Sings  of  the  sea 
With  its  deep  swell, 

Sing  thou  to  me. 

When  twilight  falls, 

And  f'-om  afar 
A  lone  thrush  calls 

The  first  pale  star,— 
Sing  wind  of  the  sha  'ows, 

Sing  wraith  of  the  rain, 
In  the  quiet  meadows, 

To  me  again. 


16 


H 


QUESTIONING. 

ow  mournful  seems  the  autumn  noon  and  long, 
How  slow  across  the  world  the  sun  has  drifted; 

The  dial  since  the  lark's  awakening  song 
Hath  scarcely  shifted. 

For  naught  of  solace  may  my  dreaming  soul 
Find  either  in  the  morn  or  noontide  golden; 

But  twilight  bringeth  thee,  its  aureole, 
By  dusk  enfolden. 

So  long  the  day  hath  been,  a  weary  while; — 
Perchance  it  is  as  well,  for  then  the  dearer 

Will  be  the  wondrous  grace  of  thy  sweet  smile, 
When  thou  art  nearer. 

All  day  I  wait  beneath  the  garden  trees, 

And  marvel  where  thy  wandering  feet  are  straying; 

While  wind-borne  through  the  branches  memories 
Are  softly  playing. 

The  autumn  sun  is  warm;  and  ripe  and  fair 

The  sun-red  apples  through  the  leaves  are  showing; 

As  though  each  fruit,  thick-set  and  ruby,  were 
A  love-lamp  glowing. 

But  down  the  garden-way  with  branches  set 
There  lie  the  leaves  the  dead  spring  hath  begotten — 

Ah,  will  my  love,  as  we  these  leaves  forget, 
Be  e'er  forgotten? 


T 


THE   HOUSE   OF   DREAMS. 

The  Chambers  of  the  House  of  Dreams. 

—Francis  Thompson. 

HERE  is  a  chamber  in  the  house  of  dreams 
That  with  a  gentle  loveliness  is  bright; 
There  spectral  lilies  wind-unstirred  are  white, 

While  near  the  door  the  blood-red  poppy  gleams. 

And  with  a  wistfulness  no  other  deems 

My  heart  through  all  the  slow-winged  hours  of  light 
Awaiteth  at  the  postern  gate  of  night, 

Grown  weary  with  the  languorous  noontide  beams. 

And  all  the  magic  of  the  chamber's  spell 
The  twilight  beauty  of  thy  heaven-blue  eyes 

Hath  wrought.    In  speech  grown  almost  audible 
They  speak  unto  mine  own  with  still  replies. 

Alone  thou  art  the  certain  charm  thereof, 

For  it  is  there  thou  dwellest,  O  my  love! 


18 


w 


REMEMBRANCE. 

HEN  from  the  lilac  bushes  the  evening  winds  have 

taken 
Their  breath  of  dreamy  odor,  and  when  to  song 

again 
The  golden-throated  thrushes  from  drowsy  noon 

awaken, 

And  all  the  woods  and  meadows  are  sweet  with 
April  rain, 

When  soft  in  benediction  the  vesper  bell  is  calling, 
And  one  pale  star  her  taper  is  holding  quietly, 

While  deep  the  twilight  shadows  upon  the  earth 

are  falling, 
Within  my  heart  arises  the  memory  of  thee. 


L 


AN  EVENING  THOUGHT. 

OVE,  if  some  evening  when  the  soft,  white  mist 
Holds  in  embracing  arms  the  weary  world, 

And  the  last  sunbeams  all  the  peaks  have  kissed, 
And  in  sweet  slumber  all  the  flowers  are  furled, 

You  should  come  to  me,  clad  in  Death's  dark  grace, 
And  gaze  upon  me  with  your  tender  eyes, 

And  with  a  sad,  sweet  smile  upon  your  face, 

Should  say,  "I  bring  thee  peace  the  world  denies," 

Into  the  distant  land  I  do  not  know, 

Into  the  darkness  that  I  hope  means  light, 

I  would,  dear  heart,  with  you  most  gladly  go, 
And  you  should  be  my  guardian  through  the  night. 


20 


B 


THE  VESPER  CHIME. 

ELOW  the  hills  the  westering  sun  is  stealing, 

And  lengthening  shadows  stir, 
While  mellowed  sound  of  bells  comes  softly  pealing 

Through  far,  dim  fields  of  air. 

Within  my  wistful  heart  there  rise  unbidden 

Thoughts  far  too  deep  for  tears, 
And  one  sweet  face  that  is  forever  hidden, 

Fair  as  the  bygone  years. 

It  seems  to  me  that  in  the  twilight  shadows 

The  old  glad  days  are  here; 
And,  while  one  restless  lark  pipes  in  the  meadows, 

I  seem  to  feel  you  near. 

But  well  I  know  no  ecstasy  of  dreaming, 

Or  vesper  bell's  refrain, 
No  matter  how  elusive  be  the  seeming, 

Will  bring  you  back  again. 

No  more  my  grievous  heart  will  be  enraptured, 

As  when,  in  days  of  old, 
Your  deepened  eyes  and  soft  hand  held  me  captured, 

Between  the  dusk  and  gold. 

Below  the  hills  the  westering  sun  is  stealing, 

The  stars  come  one  by  one, 
While  mellowed  sound  of  bells  are  softly  pealing, 

Orison,  benison  ! 


21 


M 


WHEN  LOVE  SHALL  COME. 

Y  LOVE  may  come  when  swallows  flit 
On  wistful  wings  o'er  lawn  and  lea, 

When  Spring  a  thousand  lamps  has  lit 
In  every  cherry  tree. 


Or  when  through  drowsy  June-days  long 
The  sweet  blue  iris  stars  the  stream, 

When  all  the  woods  are  filled  with  song, 
And  pink  wild-roses  dream. 

Or  over  crisp  and  yellow  leaves 
My  love  may  hold  her  rustling  way, 

When  broad-wheeled  wains  with  ripened  sheaves 
Tell  of  the  harvest  day. 

Or  when  the  wandering  rain  and  wind 
Go  roaming  o'er  the  far  blue  hills, 

When  lone  swamp-robins  pipe  their  thinned, 
Low,  sorrow-shaken  trills. 

If  she  shall  come  in  Spring,  I  fain 
Would  wish  the  orchards  April-kissed; 

If  Winter — let  the  wind  and  rain 
Go  wandering  where  they  list.' 

For  she  alone  can  make  the  skies! 

I  know  when  I  shall  hear  her  voice 
The  sun  will  shine  from  out  her  eyes, 

My  longing  heart  rejoice. 


LOVE'S  GUERDON. 

'ROM  distant  reaches  of  the  sky  left  bare, 
Unto  the  chamber  of  the  urgent  West, 
With  pageant  fitting  for  a  royal  guest, 
To  greater  splendors  that  await  him  there, 
The  sun  along  a  jeweled  way  doth  fare; 
While  in  the  trees  the  wind  is  manifest 
As  one  whose  dreaming  fingers,  lightly  press' d, 
Make  prelude  to  a  song  of  twilight  fair. 

What  dawn,  or  noon,  or  twilight,  shall  be  mine 
To  make  the  pilgrimage  to  unknown  lands 
Not  any  omen  known  of  man  may  say; — 
Only  for  me  no  splendid  sunset  way, 
But  in  thy  waiting  eyes  to  see  love  shine, 
And  feel  again  the  pressure  of  thy  hands. 


B 


A  LYRIC. 

ENEATH  the  lilac  tree, 

With  its  breathing  blooms  of  white, 
You  waved  a  parting  kiss  to  me 

In  the  deepening  amber  light. 

Your  face  is  always  near, 
Your  tender  eyes  of  brown, 

Sometimes  in  dreams  again  I  hear 
The  whisper  of  your  gown. 

Once  more  the  lilac  tree 

With  twilight  dew  is  wet, 
And,  O,  I  would  that  you  might  be 

Alive  to  love  me  yet. 


MEMORIES. 

OMETIMES  my  thoughts  go  back  again 
To  where  the  sand-dunes,  bleak  and  grey, 

List  to  the  sad  sea's  low  refrain, 
And  stretch  to  blue  hills  far  away. 

Where  in  the  meadows  of  the  dawn 
Full  many  a  sky-lark  sweetly  sings, 

With  glad  heart  that  the  misty  morn 

Such  freshness  and  such  joyance  brings. 

There  where  upon  some  headland  steep, 

Amid  the  heather  and  the  fern, 
With  white  sea-dreams  I  fell  asleep, 

Or  listened  to  the  wailing  tern. 

Where  in  the  silence  of  the  hills 
The  murmur  of  the  sea  grows  less, — 

The  memory  of  their  silence  fills 
Me  with  the  old  child-heartedness. 


o 


AUTUMN. 

AUTUMN,  child  of  the  fast-waning  year, 
Of  passionate  desire  and  sad  regret, 
Whose  tawny-coated  thrushes,  hushed  in  fear, 
No  longer  in  the  leafless  twilight  sing, 
Whose  linnets  all  their  morning  lays  forget, 
And  wait  in  silence  for  the  far-off  spring, 
How  like  thee  is  my  heart  in  sorrow  set! 

The  twittering  swallow's  nest  beneath  the  eaves 

Lies  empty  and  forsaken;    and  afar 
The  idling  fingers  of  the  wind  the  leaves 

Have  strewn  along  the  roadside.    As  of  old 
Thy  footsteps  on  the  painted  hillsides  are, 

But  all  thy  wondrous  charm,  though  wrought 

of  gold, 
Has  left  my  heart  as  cold  as  some  pale  star. 

When  all  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  scent 

Of  bean-fields  far  away  and  hawthorne  tree, 
Blithe-hearted  through  the  woods  and  fields  I  went, 

Regarding  April  full  of  joyous  moods, 
And  all  my  heart  was  glad  unspeakably, 

And  comforted  in  leafy  solitudes, 
With  dreams  that  only  feathered  throats  set  free. 

No  more  beside  the  clear  and  gentle  stream 

The  slim  narcissus  stores  the  morning  rain, 
And  through  the  green  and  pleasant  days  to  seem 
With  wistful  eyes  to  seek  the  wandering  sun, 
Then  watch  the  April  twilight  wax  and  wane. 

But  now  the  wavering  grace  of  spring  is  done, 
And  none  of  all  my  idle  dreams  remain. 

No  more  the  woods  are  sweet  with  April  rain; 
No  more  the  bee  goes  wandering  all  the  day 
O'er  hill  and  meadow,  humming  his- blithe  strain, 
To  pillage  orchard-blossoms  and  the  shrines 
Of  primroses  that  by  the  roadside  sway; 

And  all  the  world,  except  the  shadowy  pines, 
Is  steeped  in  the  deep  pathos  of  decay. 

For  now  the  leaves  lie  where  of  late  they  threw 

Their  grateful  shadows  on  the  April  lea. 
Beneath  the  reaches  of  the  austere  blue, 

O'er  all  the  pensive  autumn  world  there  lowers, 
Arrayed  in  all  his  autumn  sorcery, 

Death;  and  fair  April,  with  her  fragrant  flowers, 
Has  yielded  long  ago  to  what  must  be. 

26 


D 


FANTASY. 

IM  are  her  sea-grey  eyes,  and,  amber-tressed, 

Her  brows  are  fair; 
As  white  as  ivory  newly  sawn  her  breast 

Is  gleaming  bare; 
And  wandering  slowly  down  the  garden-way 

I  see  her  pass. 
The  moon  is  wan,  and  soft  the  low  winds  sway 

The  creeping  grass. 

So  sad  and  strange  there  comes  a  serenade, 

A  lingering  sigh, 
A  plaintive  tinkling  that  her  fingers  played 

In  years  gone  by. 
So  sad  upon  the  air  that  sweet  old  tune 

It  floats  along, 
And  fills  the  garden,  lit  by  the  pale  moon, 

With  lonely  song. 

And  ever  in  the  dusk,  when  day  grows  old, 

I  wait  for  her; 
When  soft  and  slow  night  cometh,  shadowy-stoled, 

And  all  is  fair. 
How  sweet  in  this  dim  moonlit  night  in  May 

The  fallen  rain 
Hath  left  the  roses  where  she  held  her  way, 

But  all  in  vain! 

However  fair,  no  earthly  odors  blown, 

However  sweet, 
Or  ruby  glow  of  any  love-lamp  shown, 

May  stay  her  feet. 
What  joys  foregone,  what  earthly  fate  foresworn, 

Arise  in  her, 
That,  'mid  the  asphodels  beyond  the  bourn, 

She  may  not  fare? 


w 


IN  THE  CONVENT  GARDEN. 

ITHIN  the  convent  garden,  at  the  dusk 

Of  day,  when  the  pale  yellow  primrose  blows, 

And  mignonette  and  violets  and  musk 

Make  fragrant  all  the  garden's  sweet  repose, 


Near  where  a  wild-rose,  trained  along  the  wall 
Of  mossy  stones,  lets  blossoms  pink  and  sweet 

In  tangled  masses  through  a  crevice  fall, 
A  nun  reclines  upon  a  carved  seat. 

Her  long  white  robes  just  touch  the  lavender 
That  borders  all  the  pathways,  which  the  breeze 

Has  carpeted  with  petals  pale  and  fair, 
Blown  like  a  petal  snow  from  almond  trees. 

And  through  the  garden's  hush  there  comes  the  song 
Of  two  gold-throated  nightingales  who  seem 

To  sing  their  hearts  out  all  the  evening  long, 
Near  where  the  roses  on  the  old  wall  dream. 

Fair  nun,  in  these  days  of  a  restless  age^ 
Within  thy  garden  of  sweet,  fragrant  bloom, 

I  envy  thee  thy  simple  heritage, 
Thy  life  that  ne'er  is  shadowed  with  doubt's  gloom. 


28 


THE   END   OF   DAY. 

'""T'HE  twilight  falls,  and  the  breezes, 
1       Over  the  valleys  and  hills, 
Are  bearing  a  faint  remembrance 
Of  a  dead  spring's  daffodils. 

Far  over  the  purple  heather, 
As  in  days  of  the  bygone  time, 

The  cathedral  bells  are  sounding 
The  self-same  vesper  chime. 

They  bear  the  same  old  message, 
But  for  you  no  more  they  beat 

The  passing  of  the  hours, 

So  sad,  and  solemn,  and  sweet. 

I  wait  through  shine  and  shadow 
For  the  time  when  I  shall  greet 

Your  sweet  blue  eyes  so  tender, 

Where  the  song  and  the  silence  meet. 


29 


MY  SEA. 

STILLED  is  the  fervent  rapture  that  was  mine 
When  as  a  child  my  soul  thy  strange  spell  knew, 
When  stars  were  paling,  or  at  day's  decline, 
Yet  has  my  heart  to  thee  been  leal  and  true. 

It  was  a  tremulous  ecstasy  to  stray 

Along  thy  shore  in  a  child's  dream  of  thee, 

And  listen  to  thy  winds  by  night  or  day, 

What  message  from  afar  they  brought  to  me. 

Oft  have  I  cried  to  thee  in  lonely  need, 

Being  but  a  child  and  full  of  fear; 
And  thou  hast  ever  harkened  and  gave  heed, 

Until  my  heart  knew  that  thy  heart  was  near. 

In  this  far  summer  land  I  dwell  apart, 
And  sigh  for  thy  perforced  relinquished  ways. 

I  walk  forlorn  and  weary,  and  my  heart 
Is  full  of  unforgotten  yesterdays. 

I  know  that  when  the  world  is  full  of  sleep 
And  weariness  of  life  and  love  for  me, 

That  I  shall  hear  thy  voice:  thy  lone  shores  keep 
For  me  an  ever-ready  hostelry. 


w 


A  MEMORY. 

HERE  jasmine  grows  beside  the  door 

She  stood,  unconscious  of  her  grace, 
With  all  the  sunlight  streaming  o'er 
Her  pretty  face. 

I  can  recall  her  very  look; 

Her  eyes,  from  out  their  tenderness 
An  air,  it  seemed,  the  whole  world  took 
Of  gentleness. 


LILACS. 


many  slender,  feathered  throats 
Come  sweet,  delicious,  limpid  notes  ; 
Along  the  gust-sweet  garden-way 
The  lilac  bush  is  gay. 

The  nightingale  sings  to  the  rose 
In  many  a  moonlit  garden-close  ; 

Thy  lover  is  no  lyric  bird: 

A  moth  thy  heart  has  stirred. 

A  moth  whom  from  thy  fragrant  lips 
So  charily  the  nectar  sips, 

Who,  'neath  the  trembling  stars  above, 

Murmurs  his  word  of  love. 

Teach  me  thy  charm,  O  happy  flower, 
That  lures  a  lover  in  an  hour 

Of  lessening  light,  that  so  may  I 

My  love  keep  ever  nigh.  , 


NOCTURNE. 

A  FRAGRANCE  comes  from  the  garden, 
Where  roses  and  violets  grow, 
As  it  came  in  the  tender  twilight 
Of  an  evening  long  ago. 

And  far  through  the  shadowy  pine  trees 
Comes  floating  a  vesper  chime, 

To  me  as  I  sit  in  the  twilight, 
And  dream  of  the  olden  time. 

And  it  seems  to  me  while  waiting, 
In  the  hush  of  the  sweet  spring  night, 

That  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  darling, 
See  the  gleam  of  her  eyes  so  bright. 

Is  it  only  a  bird  that  is  singing 
Above  on  the  jasmine  spray? 

Is  it  only  the  stars  that  are  shining 
In  the  waning  of  the  day? 


33 


T 


IN  THE   QUADRANGLE. 

MORNING    IN    AUTUMN. 

HE  warmful  rays  of  the  autumnal  sun 

Shine  bright  upon  the  red-tiled  roofs  and  towers; 

Where  up  the  wall  there  climb  the  jasmine  flowers 
Rose-breasted  birds  are  calling  one  by  one; 
The  trustful  sparrows,  not  to  be  outdone, 

Unceasing  chatter  through  the  morning  hours; 

And,  having  left  to  winter's  ruinous  powers 
Their  nests,  the  pilgrim  swallows  all  are  gone. 

And  like  the  swallows  I  shall  soon  depart 
From  thee,  beloved  court,  to  other  ways, 
Bearing  through  time  thy  many  yesterdays, 

Made  passional  and  influent,  in  my  heart: — 
Not  knowing  if  the  future  shall  see  all 
My  boyish  dreams  to  dust  and  ashes  fall. 

Stanford  University. 


34 


H 


IN  THE   QUADRANGLE. 

EVENING    IN    SUMMER. 

ow  beauteous  in  the  moonlight  seem  the  long 
Arcades  and  court,  where  in  the  busy  day 
So  many  hurried  feet  have  held  their  way, 

And  bright  and  eager  youthful  faces  throng  ! 

Through  the  all-golden  afternoon  the  song 
Was  heard  of  birds  with  joy  of  summer  gay; 
But  ere  the  advent  of  the  moony  ray 

They  sought  their  nests  deep-throated  blooms  among. 

Softly  the  saintly  light  is  falling  down; 

The  sweet  and  solemn  beauty  of  the  hour, 
Of  all  the  summer  day  the  very  crown, 

When  sleepeth  every  bird  and  every  flower; — 
This  is  an  hour,  O  heart,  for  thee  to  save 
To  give  a  beauty  to  thine  inmost  cave. 

Stanford  University. 


35 


T 


AT   LENTEN   VESPERS. 

HROUGH  leafless  trees  the  evening  sun  shines  red, 
And  flushes  with  its  momentary  glory 

The  great  Cathedral  pane  whereon  is  spread 
A  saintly  story. 

The  graceful  image  of  Our  Lady  stands 
Amid  tall  lilies  in  the  yellow  lustre; 

While  worshipers  devout  with  folded  hands 
Around  her  cluster. 

The  priests  in  penitential  violet  clad 

Waft  incense  upward  in  a  wavering  column; 

While  from  the  choir  there  steals  a  hymn  so  sad, 
So  soft,  and  solemn. 

The  wondrous  mystery  of  worship  there 
Is  held  in  vague  and  tremulous  possession, 

Then  wafted  on  the  taper-lighted  air 
In  sweet  expression. 

What  though  my  soul  at  last  is  reft  o£ fears! 

Assured  of  mind,  there  still  arise  within  me 
Dim  longings  for  the  unforgotten  years 

That  yet  would  win  me. 


W 


THE  PASSING  OF  LOVE. 

HERE  sweet  the  tender  peach-blooms  blow, 

Along  the  garden  wall, 
She  sat  and  waited  through  the  day 

For  the  sound  of  Love's  footfall. 

She  said:    "He  seeks  me  over  the  world, 
He  seeks  me  the  whole  year  through; 

But  surely,  to-day,  that  I  wait  for  him, 
He  will  find  me,  my  lover  true. 

"I  shall  not  say  that  I  wait  for  him, 
And  the  light  in  his  deepening  eyes, 

As  his  heart  is  filled  with  a  nameless  joy, 
I  shall  greet  with  a  feigned  surprise.'* 

She  laughed  and  sang  through  the  April  morn; 

She  played  through  the  noontime  still; 
But  at  last  there  crept  a  fear  in  her  heart, 

And  she  sighed  in  the  twilight  chill. 

Then  a  small  voice  whispered  within  her  heart, 

As  the  westering  sun  sank  low, 
That  Love,  unheeded,  had  passed  that  way, 

In  the  morning,  long  ago. 


37 


T 


SUPPLICATION. 

HE  wind  is  heavy  with  roses, 

And  the  lambent,  ruby  blaze 
Of  the  silver  lamp  discloses 

A  chalice  of  chrysoprase. 

I  have  placed  it  upon  thine  altar, 

Aphrodite,  goddess  so  fair, 
But  my  fainting  lips  they  falter, 

As  I  utter  to  thee  my  prayer. 

From  the  pearly  shell  that  is  shaken 
By  the  winds  on  thy  moony  sea, 

Ah!  who  is  the  one  that  hath  taken 
The  secrets  known  to  thee? 

From  the  trembling  words  that  are  spoken, 

Ah,  who  can  tell  what  abides 
In  my  heart?    They  are  but  the  token 

Of  the  sorrow  that  there  resides. 

A  lover,  whose  charm  encloses 
The  whole  of  my  sorrowing  life, 

Came  ere  the  radiant  roses, 
The  rich  red  roses,  were  rife. 

We  talked  in  those  bygone  hours 
Of  the  days  that  were  to  be; — 

Fate  filled  our  folded  flowers 
With  thorns  we  could  not  see. 

For  now  in  death  he  reposes 

In  some  misty  cave  of  thine, 
Where  the  depth  of  the  dim  sea  closes 

The  changes  of  sound  and  shine. 

Far  over  the  weary  water, 

Where  the  wan  light  wanes  in  the  west, 
Take  me,  Aphrodite,  thy  daughter, 

And  lay  me  with  him  at  rest. 

The  wind  is  heavy  with  roses, 
And  the  lambent,   ruby   blaze 

Of  the  silver  lamp  discloses 
A  chalice  of  chrysoprase. 

I  have  placed  it  upon  thine  altar, 

Aphrodite,  goddess  so  fair; 
But  my  fainting  lips  they  falter, 

As  I  utter  to  thee  my  prayer. 

38 


LOVE'S   ADVENT. 

[T  may  be  that  before  the  winds 
Are  rilled  by  summer  with  the  scent 
Of  roses,  and  before  the  thrill 
Of  life  has  stirred  the  trees  until 
Their  leaves  a  deeper  shade  have  lent 
Unto  the  sloping  orchard  hill. 

Or  it  may  be  when  through  the  air 
The  yellow  butterflies  and  bees, 

O'er  meadows  and  by  woodland  ways, 
Go  foraging  in  summer  days; 
When  summer's  spell  is  on  the  seas, 
And  every  sailing  shadow  stays. 

It  matters  not  what  time  it  is, 
If  blue  or  grey  be  all  the  skies, 
If  spring  or  summer-time  be  here, 
For  me  at  least  when  Love  is  near 
The  sun  will  shine  from  out  her  eyes, 
And  banish  every  waiting  fear. 


39 


A  GENTIAN. 

1  WEET  little  flower  of  autumn  skies, 
)    The  sun  his  golden  wealth  on  thee 
Sheds  not;  and  yet  thy  sapphire  eyes 
Are  matchless  in  their  purity. 

The  roses'  gaudy  loveliness 

Speaks  ill  the  message  of  thy  flower: 
They,  with  their  flaunting  crimson  dress, 

Come  only  in  a  summer  hour. 

Ah  !  great  thine  honor  thus  to  grow, 
And  in  thy  message  never  err, 

And  rich  the  blessing  'tis  to  know 
Thou  art  God's  silent  chorister. 

For  as  I  pluck  thee  tenderly 

From  where  thou  grow'st  in  the  sod, 
I  think,  sweet  flower,  if  but  for  thee 

That  I  should  know  there  is  arGod. 


A  LINNET  RHAPSODY. 

BENEATH  the  overhanging  trees, 
Along  the  iris-bordered  stream, 
And  where,  in  passing,  every  breeze 
Speaks  to  the  roses  as  they  dream, 

And  pauses  lightly  to  caress 
The  lady-ferns,  whose  fragile  ways, 

So  serial  is  their  slenderness, 
Seemed  fashioned  but  for  fairies'  gaze, 

There  where  the  linnets  sing  unseen, 
With  liquid,  purling,  silvery  notes, 

Amid  the  foliage,  dense  and  green, 
From  out  their  little  golden  throats, 

I  lie,  and  in  their  music  sweet 
Forget  that  things  must  cease  to  be, 

Forget  that  joys  are  incomplete, 
In  their  melodious  rhapsody. 


TO  DEATH. 

SILENTLY,  SOftly, 
Come  when  you  will — 
In  nectarous  noon, 
Or  exquisite  eve, 

Or  midst  of  the  night  when  the  musk-rose  sleeps- 
As  still  as  the  scent 
Of  a  fragile  flower. 

Silently,  softly, 

Come  when  you  will, 

When  dark  are  the  days 

'Neath  shadowy  skies, 

And  I  am  tired  of  the  weary  way— 

As  still  as  the  leaf 

That  floats  on  a  stream. 

Silently,  softly, 

Come  when  you  will, 

And  over  the  Sea- 

Of-the-Silent-Spell 

That  shows  no  sail  let  us  sail  away 

To  the  distant  shore  that  sends  no  sound. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  WATERS  OF  ACHERON. 


U 


PON  a  shore,  alone,  within  the  gloom 
By  moon  or  stars  unlit,  I  hear  the  strain 

Of  listless  waters  lapping,  that  resume 

With  added  woe  the  wild  and  strange  refrain 
Of  voices  of  gaunt  spectres  who  complain, 

While  force  unseen,  unceasing  bears  them  on. 
Where  go  these  ghosts,  I  ask  again,  again, 

Across  the  waters  of  dread  Acheron? 

The  constant  murmur  of  the  sea's  dull  boom 
Has  filled  my  heart  with  languor  and  with  pain. 

Bound  for  the  depths  of  yonder  vast  sea-room 
Has  one  soul  of  those  dead  men  chanced  to  gain 
Aught  from  his  past  exultant  years?    In  vain 

I  ask  again;  no  answer  falls  upon 

Mine  ears.    To  what  place  leads  life's  lane 

Across  the  waters  of  dread  Acheron? 

Charon  in  shadowy  robes  I  see  assume 

Command  of  the  strange  craft  that  sails  the  main, 
Trackless  and  drear,  whose  verge  will  soon  consume 

Those  ghostly  forms  who  go  where  long  has  lain 

The  awful  secret  men  for  ages  fain 
Have  been  to  learn  the  answer  if,  though  vain.    Is  done 

Their  phantom  journey  when  they  reach  the  plain 
Across  the  waters  of  dread  Acheron? 

ENVOY. 

Spirit,  whose  hand  doth  hold  our  life's  frail  chain, 
Is  it  for  weary  mortals  to  attain 

To  some  far  land  where  day  and  night  are  one 

Across  the  waters  of  dread  Acheron? 


43 


T 


AT  THE   BALL. 

HERE  are  many  feet  in  their  satin  shoes  that  lightly 
glance  and  go, 

There  are  many  eyes  beneath  the  light  that  joy 
ously  flash  and  glow, 

But  of  all  the  eyes  that  gleam  in  the  dance  there 
are  only  two  that  I  know. 

O  wondrous  fair  is  the  golden  star,  the  star  of  the 

morning  skies, 
And  fair  is  the  tender  flower  of  blue  that  blossoms 

when  April  dies, 
But  fairer  than  flower  and  star  of  the  dawn  is  the 

light  in  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 

She  sits  in  the  corner  and  chats  with  one,  a  hand 
some  young  fellow  she  knows, 

And  sways  her  delicate  satin  fan  with  its  Cupids  en 
couleur  de  rose, 

And  smiles,  as  she  never  has  smiled  on  me,  at  his 
carelessly  dropped  bon  mots. 

But  once  in  the  dance  there  came  to  me  a  golden 

hour  of  hours, 
Whose  glamour  and  sweetness  forever  regret  and 

joy  in  my  heart  empowers, 
When  once  we  met  and  my  dreaming  heart  was 

filled  with  the  scent  of  her  flowers. 

There  are  many  feet  in  their  satin  shoes  that  lightly 
glance  and  go, 

There  are  many  eyes  beneath  the  light  that  joy 
ously  gleam  and  glow, 

But  of  all  the  eyes  that  gleam  in  the  dance  there  are 
only  two  that  I  know. 

O  wondrous  fair  is  the  golden  star,  the  star  of  the 

morning  skies, 
And  fair  is  the  tender  flower  of  blue  that  blossoms 

when  April  dies, 
But  fairer  than  flower  and  star  of  the  dawn  is  the 

light  in  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 


44 


A   HEART-SONG. 

WILL  tie  my  heart  to  the  petal 
Of  a  lily's  pure,  white  bell, 

And  when  the  night-wind  swings  it 
The  song  of  my  heart  shall  swell, 

To  where  my  love  lies  dreaming 
Under  the  wild-rose  tree, 

And  she  will  know  that  the  breezes 
Are  bearing  a  message  from  me. 


45 


H 


A  RELIC  OF  THE  MISSIONS. 

ERE  in  the  distant  clime,  where  the  yellow  poppies 

in  springtime 
Cover  the  valleys  and  hills  with  their  shimmering 

golden  clusters, 
Builded  the  monks  of  old,  the  monks    from    the 

Spanish  cloisters. 
What  of  their  work  remains,  of  the  long  arcades 

and  the  bell-towers, 
Only  the  fragment  here  of  a  pillar  with  vines  en- 

•  twined, 
Of  a  pillar  all  quaintly  carved  with  many  a  curious 

fretwork, 
Now    almost    obscured   by    the    thickly    growing 

lichen, 
That  has  caught  and  held  the  color  of  the  golden 

haze  of  the  noontime? 
Naught  of  the  red-tiled  roof,  or  the  rafters  made  of 

the  redwood, 
Made  of  the  odorous  redwood,  brought  from  the 

mountain  canons, 
There  where  in  deepest  shadows  the  ferns  grow  tall 

and  delicate, 
And  where  the  sweet  spring  waters  gush  from  their 

wells  that  are  mossy? 
What    of   their   work   remains;    only   the   graven 

tombstones 

Set  in  the  fragrant  bloom  that  grows  in  the  south 
ern  valleys, 
Marking  the  place  where  the  monks  their  last  long 

rest  are  taking? 
Do  you  seek  the  remains  of  their  work?    Not  here 

in  the  lonely  pillar; 
Nor  there  in  the  bloom-covered  graves.   Go  search 

in  the  lives  of  the  people. 


Something:,  I  doubt  not,  remains  of  the  work  of  the 
monks  of  the  old-time. 

Down  through  the  years  it  has  come,  though  per 
haps  we  may  not  discern  it. 

Just  as  the  spring's  clear  waters  are  held  in  the 
swift  flowing  river, 

So  the  result  of  their  work,  of  their  every  noble  en 
deavor, 

Is  found  in  the  lives  of  the  people  who  live  in  the 
sun-kissed  valleys, 

Where  in  the  years  gone  by  the  monks  from  the 
Spanish  cloisters 

Builded  the  long  arcades  with  the  red-tiled  roofs 
and  the  bell-towers. 


47 


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